


Don't Fear The Love Cats

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Costumes, Fluff, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Movie Reference, Music, POV First Person, Pop Culture, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completely self indulgent Halloween costume fic inspired by the movie Rock of Ages.  Really, that's pretty much all there is to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Fear The Love Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Self beta'd.  
> Self-indulgent in terms of pretty mental images that, as I can't draw, I had to write.  
> The song choices are courtesy of the shuffle feature on my iPod and, yeah...
> 
> Fluff. Just fluff. Nothing more and nothing less.

===================  
Don't Fear The Love Cats  
by TalithaX  
===================

 

“IMF must be feeling so proud of us right now,” I comment, placing the two award statues none-too-carefully in the passenger footwell of Ethan's Ferrari California convertible before climbing into the car and gingerly lowering myself into the seat. “I mean, a first and a second in the Best Costume awards, what more could they possibly want from their agents?”

“Proud?” Ethan mutters, giving me a wry look as, with his usual grace negated by the tightness of his leather pants, he clambers behind the steering wheel. “Oh. Definitely. I bet the Secretary will give them pride of place in that room with all the commendations and awkwardly staged photographs of all the Secretaries over the years shaking the hand of all the Presidents over the years. Maybe they'll even be given their own glass case.”

“Still...” Accepting that – Benji clearly lied to me in respect to the damn suit stretching – little has changed since the drive to the White House five hours ago and that, yes, actual comfort while sitting is still out of my reach, I stop squirming in my seat and, as the expression on Ethan's face tells me that he too has come to exactly the same resigned conclusion, shrug. “At least I suppose it... kind of... made it all worthwhile.”

“No. No it didn't.” Scowling, he starts the Ferrari's engine, puts it into gear and, with scant regard to the attendant who's still – all but literally drooling on the bright red paintwork – standing near by, plants his foot and, with tyres squealing, sends the car hurtling towards the gates. “Cheap, nasty statuettes do not even come close to making any of this worthwhile.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Not even the recognition of...”

“Not even the recognition of the President himself.”

“At least you got First Prize.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Well... No.” I pause and, smirking, make a point of looking him up and down. “You do, however, still look like a debauched rock star with too much eyeliner and too many tattoos.”

His scowl intensifying, Ethan shoots me a warning look that thanks to the eyeliner lacks most of its usual potency and which, instead of telling me to leave well enough alone, only makes me want to laugh. “Not. Helping.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I thought Hilary made a pretty good Mrs Brady, didn't you?” I query, changing tack slightly in an attempt to lighten Ethan's mood.

“Can't say I noticed,” he retorts with a shrug.

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Okay. Writing attempt one off as a complete failure, I – embrace the motto of never say die or, alternatively, press on in the face of ill tempered adversity – smile brightly and try again. “What about those rat bastards, the CIA, driving up in a Batmobile, huh? That, for them, was pretty damn cool.”

“Can't say I noticed.”

“No?”

“No.”

“How about NCIS in Scooby Doo's Mystery Machine? I thought that displayed a nice degree of creativity.”

“Can't say I...”

“Noticed. Got it.” This, granted, is getting old already, but I'll be damned if I'm going to give up. “The FBI and the General Lee?”

“Nope.”

“Of course not.” I sigh. “Did you notice anything? The Secretary as Frank Sinatra? Michelle as Beyonce? That creepy director from Interpol as a scarily believable Austin Powers? Actually... Come to think of it, I wonder if he came in the Shaguar?”

“The... what?”

“The Shaguar. You know...”

“I hate to break this to you, but I don't.”

“Austin Powers' E-Type Jaguar that's painted to look like the Union Jack.”

“Oh.”

“You really don't know it?”

“I really don't know it.”

“Oh.”

“What I do know however is that you appear to know far too much about... crap... these days.”

“Crap?”

“Mmm... Movies and television... Crap.”

“Well, you can thank Benji for it.”

“Benji?”

“Yeah. Benji. I got sick of him looking at me as though I'd just crawled out from under a rock every time he mentioned anything pop culture related. So I... educated... myself in order to be able to keep up with him.”

“Remind me to thank him for it, will you?”

“I'll do that if you stop trying to change the subject.”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“You're being stupid.”

“And you're avoiding answering whether you noticed anything at the party!”

“Fine. I noticed how just about everyone in the room struggled to keep their hands off your ass,” Ethan states flatly as an inconveniently placed red light causes him to bring the car to a smooth stop.

“Oh.” So that's what's causing his mood, huh? Wonderful. If he thought watching it was bad he should have tried it from my side of the fence. “So you did notice something then.”

“It was pretty hard not to.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I mutter. “I couldn't keep my back to the wall all night and, I don't know, starting to fire off arrows might have been viewed as a little... extreme. Ditto for breaking fingers left, right and centre. Besides, you can't tell me you didn't have your own groupies. What about Wilma Flinstone and her touchy-feely fascination with your tattoos, huh? That was definitely a sight to behold.”

“Oh.” Ethan pulls a face at the memory. “You saw that?”

“It was pretty hard to miss.”

Sighing, Ethan drums his fingers on the steering wheel and flashes me a faint smile. “Some night, huh?”

Relieved that Ethan's mood appears to have finally lifted, I nod and return his smile. “That's certainly one way of putting it. These White House Halloween parties, please don't tell me they're an annual event. I don't think I could handle knowing I had this to look forward to in my future every year.”

“They're annual,” Ethan confirms, giving my knee a reassuring squeeze as the light turns green and he swiftly leaves the Corvette that had been giving every indication of wanting to drag us in the Ferrari's wake. “The Secretary, however, shares the love amongst the agents and if we're lucky our names won't be pulled out of the hat for another ten years. Oh... And speaking of luck, just count your lucky stars you missed the year Clinton went as Frank-N-Furter from Rocky Horror. I thought I was never going to be able to erase the image from my head.”

“Ten years, huh? If we're really lucky we'll be dead by then,” I retort, pulling a face and, deliberately making a point of not commenting on Bill Clinton's costume because I don't want to run the risk of scoring myself a very much unwanted mental image, mock shuddering. “I'm as up for a good Halloween party as the next person. Just not one where the whole costume thing is so damn important or where, in the grand scheme of things, I'm just an insignificant cog in the wheel who can't even do anything about being the unfortunate recipient of so many wandering hands.”

“Well...” Ethan winks at me and laughs. “I've got to admit, your ass, it makes for a damn fine sight and, confession time here, I know I had to use all of my considerable willpower not to grab it myself.”

“Oh. Warm fuzzies. A second prize for the best costume and a compliment on my ass all in one night. I'd watch it if I were you...”

“It's a bit hard when you're sitting on it.”

“Oh. Ha. Ha. Very droll. What I'd actually been going to say is that you'd better... be careful... or all that... willpower... might go to your head.”

Regardless of the speed he's going and the surprisingly large amount of traffic he's having to weave between, Ethan takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me a look that I swear goes all the way to my core. Or cock. What with the way I suddenly feel as though I'm hot enough to melt, it's a little difficult to differentiate. “I think I'd be able to cope,” he murmurs, licking his lips as he gives me another wink.

“You would,” I somehow manage to gasp out, “would you?”

“What can I say? Confidence is a gift.”

“So, apparently, is the ability to speed like a lunatic with only one eye on the road.”

“I'm a man of many talents.”

An idea – not a particularly great idea, granted, but given that I really, really don't want an erection in these Goddamn pants and desperately need something to get my mind off Ethan's tongue and what I happen to know for a fact it can do, one that I'll nonetheless latch onto with glee – popping into my head out of nowhere, I gesture at the Ferrari's sound system and smirk. “Your talents, do they stretch to singing?”

Looking, it just has to said, startled that I could even suggest such a random thing, Ethan shrugs and shakes his head. “I don't sing.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Not even Karaoke?”

“Not even Karaoke.”

“Not even Karaoke as part of your cover while on a mission in Tokyo?”

The pained expression on Ethan's face telling me that I've got him, I mentally pat myself on the back and plead, “Come on, Stacee, sing us a song.” 

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Stop looking at me like that. You're meant to be Hawkeye, not Puss in Boots.”

“But I really want you to sing.”

“And I really don't want to sing.”

“But... You're dressed as a rock and roll star!”

“So? You're dressed as some sort of modern day Robin Hood.”

“Er... I don't think he goes in much for the robbing from the rich, giving to the poor thing.”

“So? Robin Hood. Legolas. Hawkeye. Isn't it all just about the fancy archery?”

“So...” I grin and reach for the bow stuffed awkwardly behind our seats. “If I wow you with my archery skills, you'll have no excuse not to sing for me... Right?”

Sighing, Ethan roll his eyes and, slamming on the brakes just in time as another red light spoils his – fun – drive, brings the Ferrari to a shuddering stop. “Okay. Fine. You win. If you can blow me away with your skills with a bow I... I'll sing along to something for you.”

Nodding my acceptance, I haul the bow onto my lap and look at Ethan expectantly. “So how do you want to do this?”

“Uh...” Glancing around the intersection, Ethan's gaze falls on a group of people wearing sadly all too familiar looking costumes as they wait to cross the road and, with a truly mischievous grin, points to them. “Hey, look. It's your posse.”

“And again I say, ha ha, very droll,” I mutter, taking in the sight of, and they'd have to be at least the fifth such group I've seen on the streets tonight, the Avengers as, clearly drunk, they jostle each other and nearly push Iron Man into the path of an oncoming Mazda. “The Black Widow though... Doesn't she look a little... uh... Hulk sized to you?”

“Black Hippo, definitely,” Ethan agrees, gesturing at the group's tall and scrawny Hawkeye. “Where do you reckon he got his bow, Toys R Us?”

“Well, not everyone has access to an armoury like ours,” I smirk. “Come on though, what do you want me to do? Shoot that bottle of Jim Beam out of Captain America's hand?”

“You sure you want to attempt that?” Ethan queries, giving me a doubtful look. “If you miss...”

“If I miss there will be more than bad bourbon being spilt on the street,” I finish with a shrug as, with even less grace than Ethan displayed getting into the car, I first struggle into a kneeling position before tentatively standing up on my seat and grabbing an arrow. “Don't look so worried. You don't have a monopoly on confidence, you know.”

“Yeah, but...”

“Don't underestimate my desire to hear you sing.”

“You only say that because you haven't heard it before.”

“Maybe... But I'm determined. Now... Watch...” Lining up my shot, I offer a silent prayer to any deity that may be lurking around to witness this insanity that I don't fuck up and accidentally shoot the guy and release the arrow. It glides through the air as though locked on to the Jim Beam bottle and when it hits its target and glass shatters everywhere the collective look of surprise on their faces – not to mention Ethan's – is truly something else to behold.

As is their verbal reaction.

“What the fuck...?”

“Fucking poser!” 

“Mother fucker!”

“Who made your costume, your mother?”

Sliding back into my seat just as the light changes, I flash Ethan a triumphant grin and shrug. “Given that I think this Godforsaken costume came direct from the studio that made the stupid movie, I think they've got a nerve calling themselves fans, don't you?”

“I think we're just lucky the lights changed before the Black Hippo stormed over here and punched your lights out,” Ethan retorts drily. “What's more, going on the size of her, I would have just left you to it.”

“Charming.”

“She really was rather large.”

“I know that. Now, what I also know is that I successfully displayed my prowess with a bow for you and that what you're doing now is trying to deflect the fact that you have to uphold your side of the deal and sing for me.”

“You're really not going to give up, are you?”

“Nope. So get to it.”

Sighing heavily, Ethan gives me a coy look and pulls an iPod out of a pocket in his... shag-pile (or alternatively yak-fur, not being up on 80s rock star fashion it's hard for me to tell) coat and hands it to me. “You'd better cue this up then.”

Taking the iPod, I raise my eyebrow in silent question and wait for him to explain.

“What? Don't look at me like that. It was just in there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Benji or Jane must have put it in there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Realising that I'll probably never know how an iPod conveniently made it into Ethan's pocket, I shrug and connect it to the Ferrari's sound system. “Got anything in mind?”

“Oddly enough, as I still don't want to be doing this, no, I don't.”

“So... shuffle... it is then.”

“Whatever.”

“And if it lands on... Love Shack?”

“Love Shack?” Ethan murmurs, giving me the sort of look that implies he's beginning to have – serious – concerns about my mental state.

“Mmm... Love Shack. You know. Tin roof...”

“Rusted,” he laughs, taking his hand off the wheel to rub his temple. “Yes. I know. And if... Love Shack, and, honestly, how the hell that song happened to jump into your head isn't something I even want to contemplate, comes on then, fine, I'll sing Love Shack to you.”

Beaming, I feign a swoon and place my hands over my heart. “Aw. You say the nicest things.”

“Mmm... Nothing says... love... more than offering to sing a B-52's song.”

“Okay...” I prepare to hit the play button on the iPod. “Here goes...”

“Wait!” Bringing the car to a stop, Ethan frowns and points back at a small side street we've just passed. “And, no, before you say anything I'm not stalling, but... I could have sworn I just saw Benji in that street.”

Craning my neck, I look over in the direction Ethan's pointing but don't see anything. “Benji?”

“Yes. Benji. Dressed in a blood splatted shirt with a red tie and carrying a cricket bat of all things. Oh... And he appeared to be being chased by a pack of zombies.”

“Oh. Sounds like something Benji would do on Halloween then.”

“That's the first thought that jumped into my mind too,” Ethan replies, returning his foot to the accelerator. “You don't think he'd... need rescuing or anything, do you?”

“As he's the one who chose these... fabulous... costumes for us, I can't really say I care all that much if he does.”

“Fair point.”

“In fact, I hope the zombies get him.”

“Will!”

“It'd only be fair.”

“It would?”

“Mmm... Payback for the fact I've just spent an evening being felt up by half the middle aged politicians in the Capital and their entourages.”

“You forgot to specify... female... politicians.”

“No. I didn't.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh...”

“You're right then. Let the zombies have him.”

“Damn right.” Picking up the iPod, I wave it at Ethan. “Now... Where were we?”

“We... were waiting for you to regret ever having landed on this fool idea,” Ethan mutters, rolling his eyes. “Go on. Just hit the damn button already and let's get this over with.”

Not needing telling twice, I hit 'play' and hold the screen close to Ethan so that he can see the song that has come up. “Ready for a spot of Blue Oyster Cult?”

“Don't Fear The Reaper? Bring it. It's one of my favourites.”

“For some reason that just doesn't surprise me,” I reply, dropping the iPod onto my lap and gesturing for Ethan to start. “Go on then, what are you waiting for?”

“Perhaps for the lyrics to start?”

“Fair point.”

“I thought so.”

As I should have known, given that I swear there isn't a single solitary thing that the man can't do, Ethan has a good singing voice and by the time the song's coming to an end he's really getting in to it and is clearly enjoying himself. Which, it just has to be said, goes the same for me. I mean, how on earth could it not be working for me? My lover, who, okay, admittedly never ever looks bad, is dressed as an incredibly sexy rock star and he's singing to me for no other reason than I wanted him to. Just... The stupid costume that I'm still not entirely sure I'm going to be able to get out of and all the wandering hands aside, as Halloween's go this is easily shaping up to be the best one I've ever had.

“Happy now?” Ethan murmurs once the song's finished and I'm hovering my finger over the iPod's pause button in the hope of getting him to continue.

“Incredibly so,” I smile. “Go again?”

“Once wasn't enough?”

“Not even close.”

“Okay then. Mysterious shuffle function, hit me with your best shot.”

“As that might be on there, do you want me to look for it?”

“Look for what?”

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot, of course.”

Laughing, and I realise as I look at him that I can't remember when we last had so much purely innocent fun, Ethan shakes his head and taps his finger on the iPod. “Random works for me.”

“'Kay...” Looking at the screen, I grin at what I see pop up on it and clap my hands together gleefully. “Love Cats!”

“Aw...” Ethan pouts and looks disappointed. “I'd have preferred Let's Go To Bed.”

“You think you're tired now, but wait until three?” I offer, snickering.

“Now we're on the same page.”

“Mmm, but...” I give him my best hopeful look.

“Fine. But only because you're giving me that damn Puss in Boots look again, all big eyes and pleading.”

“Purrfect.”

“Smart ass.”

“Shut up and sing.”

By the time Ethan's pulling the Ferrari into his driveway we're both either singing with the sort of enthusiasm usually best left to either the very drunk or the very high, or laughing like complete loons. My jaw aches from grinning, my lungs burn from laughing almost to the point of hyperventilating at Ethan's rendition of I'm Too Sexy, and I'm so very, very happy that I almost feel in danger of bursting.

Literally tripping over Ethan's First Place statuette for his Stacee Jaxx costume in my haste to get out of the car, I hurry around to the driver's side in time to engulf him in a massive bear hug the second he climbs out. “What a night,” I murmur, sliding my hands under his coat so that they can rest on warm, toned flesh as I capture Ethan's lips with mine for a passionate kiss.

Breaking the kiss after what feels like many, many glorious minutes have passed, Ethan gives me another one of those looks that goes straight to my cock and plants a teasing kiss to the tip of my nose. “And it's not even over yet,” he whispers directly in my ear, the feel of his breath tickling my skin having the very same effect on me as his look a second ago did and making me want to get out of these trousers, like, now.

“Tell you what,” I state breathlessly, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the front door. “If you can get me out of this costume, you can have me.” Coming to a stop, I spin around and, grabbing the front of Ethan's coat in both hands, pull him towards me so that our torsos are touching. “Your coat, however? It stays...”

~ end ~


End file.
